


I Smoke Lucky Strikes and Think of You

by HumbleCommoner



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Depression, F/F, I'm Bad At Tagging, Lost Love, Past Relationship(s), Past Suicidal Thought, References to Drugs, Sad, Sad Korra, Smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-22 16:09:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22118608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumbleCommoner/pseuds/HumbleCommoner
Summary: Love can be a wonderful thing. Can make you feel whole, protected. It can hit you like a ton of bricks, or come on more slowly, sometimes something in between. Maybe even last a lifetime.But love can also hurt. It can be cruel. Tear you into little pieces, step on your heart, and make you wish that you'd never had it to begin with. Mine is of this latter sort. It has grown bitter and jaded, alongside myself. My dreams are filled with memories of a whirlwind romance. My mind with vivid memories of a precious few days. My soul divided over whether I should hate you, now, or not.I smoke Lucky Strikes and think of You.Do you do the same?
Relationships: Korra/Asami Sato
Comments: 12
Kudos: 29





	I Smoke Lucky Strikes and Think of You

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wrote most of this in one sitting a few months ago, when my head was in a fairly long stretch of mental and emotional doldrums. Just finished it up this week on a break from my other project. Probably the angstiest thing I've ever written.  
> Some notes: This is my first ever work written in first-person, so I apologize if that aspect is a little rough. Also, I know I told my readers that this would be a one-shot, but I needed to break it in half to get the flow I wanted. Sorry.  
> Hope you enjoy.

It's just after 8pm, and the sun is sinking low against the horizon. Just like every evening for the longest time, I find myself sitting in a chair on my porch, looking out over the gentle swells of the Pacific. Orange and yellow light dances off those crystal waters. The clouds look like they're on fire. Another beautiful view of another beautiful sunset.

The weather is pleasant. Not too hot. Not too humid. Fall has finally broken the back of a lingering summer. A single bead of sweat runs down my brow, a single mosquito buzzes by my ear.

Absently, I dig in my pocket for the crushed paper box lined with foil and lift it to my lips. I shake it until the last trio of filters poke from the package for me to choose from. They're sad, crinkled, abused little things, but I guess that's what I get for being a one-stick a day girl. Attached enough by sentiment to not give up the habit, yet not addicted enough to consume them at a rate to keep up the aesthetics of smoking.

The Marlboro Man, I am not.

Making my choice, I tuck one cigarette into my lips and tap the others back inside, tossing the carton onto the table next to me. Begrudgingly, I rise enough to dig the lighter you gave me out of my back pocket. I need it, but it hurts so much to look at.

Not the design. That's rather innocent. A novelty thing with images of some anime characters I've forgotten the names of on either side.

Just like every time I hold it, my thumb caresses the thing the same way it always does. Wishing that cold steel felt as good in my fingers as your warm skin did. Then, I catch myself. Squeeze down with all the force I can muster in an effort to crush the casing. Only for it to not give, just like it never does, and I make to throw the keepsake out into the yard.

But I catch it on the very tips of my fingers, holding it close to my beating heart for a second.

I don't always do that. Sometimes, I just relent and strike the flame. Other times, when life is rough, I hurl it as far as I can into the street, only to run after and polish any scuffs against my shirt until the luster returns.

Sighing, I flip open the lid and flick the flint, puffing until the first wisps of acrid smoke fill my mouth. Gently as I would handle a newborn, my thumb flicks the cap closed to snuff the little flame. Drawing deeply to keep the ember going, the lighter returns to its place of honor on the table, standing tentatively against the offshore breeze.

Cars go by, rushing down the narrow lane to wherever they're going. Trying to beat the darkness I wait patiently for every day, I guess.

Everyone's always in such a rush, here, myself included. At least some things never change.

When we met, I was in a rush. Running my way through life, both without, and with too many cares in the world. A bad breakup, a bad attitude, and more than a few bad habits to my name. I was a regular runaway hellion. The only things I had more of than fights were the bruises I picked up along the way. Broke my nose and a couple fingers, all to numb the pain of my broken heart. Went about as well as you could expect.

Badly, in other words.

So, I packed my bags and flew to the farthest away place I could think of.

Japan. Land of the Rising Sun. Birthplace of manga, sushi, Kobe beef, and karate. All the things the idiot teenaged version of me loved. That and crap music, overpriced shoes, and clothes I wouldn't be caught dead in nowadays. Not with a half-decent 9-to-5 job to pay the bills and fill the hours.

Once in a while, I wonder what my life would have been like if you hadn't hit me with your car. An odd fantasy, to be sure. Especially when those next two weeks still linger fondly in my mind.

You were so beautiful.

In an instant, I was jealous. Angry. You looked like my ex's new girlfriend. Pretty like a model, with long lashes and rouged cheeks. Wavy hair of raven black and ruby red lipstick. Not a strand out of place, unlike my unruly mop. Perfect as you looked, the wreck might as well have happened on a movie set, full of paparazzi and clamoring fans.

We never should have said a word to each other. Circumstances being different, I doubt we ever would. And the ones I did say were hardly inviting of friendship or apology. Yet you brushed off my fire and brimstone with a look of sincere concern.

I can hear your voice even now, as I drag on a cancer stick, ruining my own lungs. Perfect match for the rest of you.

Fuck, it made me so mad.

Once I got tired of your apology; your rushed, broken English; I had stormed off into the crowds of Tokyo. Never expecting to see you again. Actually hoping not to.

You found me.

Or rather, you found my hotel room. Somehow. Never did tell me how you did that. In one hand, two of everything that had fallen from my bag, in the other, an envelope full of yen tucked into a note so eloquently written that I still have it framed on my wall.

Not that I bothered to read it at the time.

No, I was too busy being livid and ridiculously animated. Stamping my feet, shaking my fist, threatening, posturing, and all that good American nonsense we use to start fights we really want, but don't really need.

I smile when I remember how you bowed and professed your apologies a second time. The way it stunned me, broke me, left me with no good words to answer with. So I apologized to you. For yelling. For cursing. For walking out into the middle of a busy street during a red light. For having the nerve to be angry when it was all my fault to begin with.

That was the first time I saw you smile. Part of my chest squeezes at the memory. The gentle curl of plump, scarlet lips as eyes of emerald-green shone with understanding.

We ended up in a bar, if memory serves. A little mom-and-pop joint off the main drag with a cloth entryway and a warmly jolly hostess to take our orders. Whiskey and beer for the Gaijin, sake for the local. Drinks served in endless lines as salary-men in suits slowly accumulated around us, each with the same slump in his shoulders and weariness of his eyes, regardless of age. Many knew you by name. Some might have been your friends. All were willing to buy a round for us as we commiserated.

You told me your life story, I told you mine. Turned out we had a lot in common. Sure, you had lost your mother, while my parents had sheltered me away from the world, but we both felt like that world was balanced on our shoulders.

I puff and wonder if it really was. Has my life lived up to the hype?

Spirits know.

All I know, is that I miss you. Every day and every night, I think of you and the time we spent together. My eyes linger west across that great sea, and I pray you are looking east to me.

After drinking ourselves silly, we'd exchanged numbers and promised to meet the next day after you got off work, climbing into separate cabs to sleep in separate rooms. The phone rang at 6:14 the next morning, a second before my finger hit call.

Tourist sights, temples, street festivals, arcades, factory-floors. Damn, we saw it all together. Dragged along by your pure enthusiasm to show me every little thing to love about the city. My hand in your hand, feet falling in each others footsteps. Just the two of us. Some of the best memories you could have.

When we weren't together, we texted. Emailed. PMed.

Hardly half an hour went by that we weren't in touch. As seconds would drag to minutes, my eyes would glue to the blank screen, waiting breathlessly for a notification that always came. I imagined you doing the same on the other end, dipping under your desk to respond.

But that was years ago.

I haven't heard your voice in more than one than of those. Before that, it had been a handful of months. Your last few texts sit unanswered on an old phone buried somewhere in my closet. My emails languish many pages back in your inbox. That is, if they are still there, at all. I don't know, because we don't talk anymore.

Not for any real reason. We just don't, so far as I can tell. It's not because we haven't seen each other. It's not because I'm back to being bitter, cynical, and envious.

It's not because I can't sleep before I think about you.

But dammit, I miss you. More so every day. There's a hole in my chest where you used to be. Some days it's bigger, others it shrinks. Always there, though. I can never shake the feelings that kindled in that claustrophobic train station. Your body pressed so close to mine I could feel your heartbeat in my chest, your scent overpowering in my nose, lips so close I could practically taste them. And then I did. And then everything had changed.

Every kiss should taste like that first one.

Stupid and clumsy and drunken and awkward. The sudden shock of realizing what you've done. Giggling dumbly over the bottle you've drunk half of, already.

We kissed a lot, those last few days. After our heads had stopped throbbing from the hangover of the first. Secretly. Like it was some sort of precious thing people would snatch away if it came to light. Maybe it would have done, if time had not.

The smoke in my mouth reminds me of kissing you. How you'd say I tasted terrible when I smoked, but never to stop doing it. Apparently, it made me look like James Dean.

To be honest, I never saw it.

Do I?

Spirits, what **do** I look like?

A self-pitying, downtrodden glorified charity worker, most likely. No more apt description comes to mind. Each night, as people drive by to live up the end of a work week, a birthday, holiday, or rough break-up, they see someone that can't move on. A single ember glowing on an unlit porch, blue eyes staring blankly out at the same sunset that has fallen a thousand-thousand times over the same crowded bay.

Once in a while, a thought comes to mind. Do they notice the girl sitting there, all alone? Gossip about her? Bounce theories of one another until the chatter inevitably reverts to the evening's revelry to be?

Maybe.

Or maybe I have just faded into the background. Like a park bench or an old tree. A fixture only newcomers bother to note.

The last puff is always the most bitter. It bears a finality the others just can't capture. Also, a certain tinge of deja vu. No matter what else might happen between that first drag and the last, a cigarette always ends the same way. Smashed flat into the ashtray with all the others. More than I have any right to leave out, in the small chance that company might come by.

Mom and Dad do, every couple of months.

Tenzin, too.

Jinora.

Bolin and Opal.

Even Mako.

Coming to check up on me. Make sure I haven't done something stupid. Not in that way, of course. But in others.

Since having and losing you, I've found and ditched a whole bunch of habits trying to shake your memory. Most of them bad. All of them stupid. Poorly conceived quick-fixes that never last long. Make me more miserable than I already was.

Drinking, drugs, and dating people I had no business with.

There were a couple nice ones. A friend I'll probably keep for life. One that drove me mad to the point of standing at the edge of a cliff over the ocean, one foot dangling over the edge.

Didn't jump.

Obviously.

Been getting better every day, since. Picking up the pieces, one-by-one. Making my peace with those too small or elusive to grasp. Smiling more, sleeping better, crying less, 'depending' more on friends and family than something rolled up in paper or snorted up my nose. It's been hard, but everyone says how proud they are when I fail to backslide this time around.

I don't tell them I've regressed all the way back to you, though. They wouldn't understand. Would try to send me back therapy, my parents' spare bedroom, or somewhere worse.

No one gets how my first real addiction was **you**. The taste of your lips against me, scent of your sweat filling my nose. Kisses down my naked neck, fumbling hands on my breasts, sound of soft sighs as I strike some cord amidst my own random exploration.

We had made love just the once (sex seems too vulgar a word for it), but the ghost of sensation still makes my knees weak as I try to stand. The breeze from the storm comes in and nearly sends me off my feet. Lucky Stripes topple from the crushed carton and spill onto the deck, disappearing into shadow. Make matters worse, a single mote of sand or ash catches a searching eye, blinding me and making the tears come all that closer to the surface.

“Damnit!” my croaky voice croaks as I dive to retrieve my treasures.

Then, the phone rings.

To be honest, it's a little shocking. No one calls this late anymore. Unless it's some kind of emergency. Something I'd like to avoid, thank you very much.

Fingers pick up the buzzing rectangle, shaking it to wake the stubborn screen to reveal… a mystery. Not a spam call, since the number's listed, but not a friend, either. But no one I don't know has this number. Hell, even some that do know me haven't got it. I've weeded out so many these last few months. Blocking, ghosting, and failing to inform most of my contacts along the way.

_Who are you?_

_Why are you calling me?_

_Where on earth is that area code from?_

Tentatively, my finger drags over the icon, deciding that I'd rather hang up on a stranger than be the last to learn bad news. “Hello?” I ask, half expecting the last fax-machine in America.

Silence.

“Hello?”

Still nothing.

Quiet as the grave. Puzzling enough to me enough to check and see if my finger had drifted over the wrong button. But no, it's gone through, timer ticking away, eating up precious seconds of my life. Frustrated and angsty as I often am after my evening ritual, I demand, “Look, if you're there, speak up already. If not, hang the **fuck** up!”

The response is soft as a breath of wind. So soft it's almost swallowed by a rumble of distant thunder. So faint that, had the speaker not been pressed flat against my ear, I wouldn't have heard it. One word in a voice that haunts my dreams to this day, “Korra?”

“A-Asami?”

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2 will come out once my other work, Gone Questing, has wrapped up. In other words, a couple months. Again, sorry.  
> Hope you all enjoyed. If so, please let me know. Comments are always wonderful.


End file.
